Webster (3 page)

Of course he could talk. He just didn't, very often. Since he had lost his family many months ago, back in Arkansas, his encounters with other animals had usually been brief, and raising his fur or wagging his tail or whatever had been enough.

“Well?”
the cat said, looking impatient.

“Why do you have a British accent?” he asked.

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“Because I can,” Florence said grandly.

The dog blinked, forgot how aloof he was—and laughed. She might be a cat, but there was still something plucky and hilarious about her.

“Everyone's very worried,” Florence said. “I heard them saying that you're barely eating, and that you've mostly just been lying here staring at nothing for hours on end.”

Yeah. So? The dog didn't say anything. Or move.

“Planning on getting up anytime soon?” Florence asked.

Nope. He was not.

“Well, I simply won't have it,” Florence said, and stamped one of her paws on the floor for emphasis. “There's been quite enough moping, and you will come with me
right now
.”

The dog started to jump to his feet, but then paused. “I don't want to,” he said. “And I'm a very,
very
bad dog, missy, so don't try to argue with me.”

Florence sighed. “You dogs take rejection so hard—it's awfully tedious. Now, come along. We have kibble and biscuits.”

They had food? Okay. He was extremely wicked and all—but, he was also hungry, and besides, she sounded like she meant business.

She led him down the dark hallway, and he could see that a few of the dogs were sleeping, while other cage doors were open.

“Do you pick and choose who gets to come out at night?” the dog whispered.

Florence shook her head. “Some of them are going to the adoption fair tomorrow in town, so they're resting up. Put their best feet forward and such.”

The dog wasn't sure what an adoption fair was, but
Florence was stumping so briskly and efficiently down the hall that he was afraid to interrupt her again. Her walk was a strange limping stagger, and as he trotted behind her, he tried to pretend that he hadn't noticed.

“I have no cerebellum,” Florence said.

The dog nodded uneasily.

“Dr. K. thinks that my mother maybe had distemper when I was born, and so, my brain didn't form properly, and my balance is a bit dodgy.” Florence paused. “Also, I got hit by a car.”

Well, that could do it, yeah.

“And I'm diabetic,” Florence said. “So, I'm unadoptable.”

The dog noticed that she had only a tiny little stub of a tail, too, but maybe that had happened in the accident with the car. He decided not to mention it, in case it brought back bad memories.

“However,” Florence said, “you will be happy to know that I have no cognitive impairments whatsoever.” She glanced up at him, and immediately lost her balance and fell over—but then, rolled back up onto her feet. “Well? Are you happy to hear about that?”

“Um, yes, ma'am,” he said politely. “That's surely good news. Congratulations.”

She nodded. “Which is as it should be. You are Webster, correct?”

“For now,” the dog said. Until he escaped, anyway. “I don't really like it.”

“They do their best,” Florence said. “We have so many animals come through here, that I think they've run out of names. And Webster is dignified.” She squinted at him with her little crossed eyes. “Although it is not clear to me whether
you
are dignified. We shall have to see.”

The dog followed her to the room with the low couches and brightly colored rugs. To his surprise, the den was full of dogs and cats lounging around. It looked almost like they were having a party.

“This is Webster-Until-He-Gets-A-Better-Name,” Florence announced. “Be sweet to him—he's still deeply mired in his traumatized phase.”

The animals all nodded sympathetic nods.

The room was so crowded that the dog hung back near the door, feeling shy.

“Well, come on now,” Florence said. “Spit spot!”

Spit spot?

“Hey there, Grumpy!” a voice yelled, and he saw the mouthy Yorkshire Terrier over on one of the couches.

Okay, at least he knew someone in the room. Sort of. The dog gave him a brief nod.

“That's Jack,” Florence said. “He's been here for about four months.”

“
Everybody
wants to adopt me,” Jack said proudly. “But, I'm very choosy, and won't go with just anyone.”

Another dog, who was a Border Collie mix, laughed. “He's really loud. Nobody's taking that little yapper home.”

From his place on the couch, Jack looked crushed.

“MacNulty,” Florence said in a warning voice.

“Sorry, man,” the Border Collie said quickly. “Everyone knows you're probably the cutest one here—you'll definitely have a new family before any of the rest of us do.”

Jack brightened when he heard that. “That's right! And when it happens, I'll be sitting pretty.”

Florence introduced the dog to an elderly female Bernese Mountain Dog mix named Pico, a black cat with white markings named Bert—who had his mouth stuffed with kibble, and a sly-looking tortoiseshell cat named Kerry. The dog knew he would never remember all of the names, but he nodded at each one of them in turn.

MacNulty, the Border Collie mix, seemed to have a lot of restless energy and kept shifting his weight from one paw to the other, and jumping in place every so often.

Border Collies were
so
predictable. “Looking for something to herd?” the dog asked.

MacNulty nodded. “You bet! I figure I'll get adopted by some farmers and get to herd
all day long
. It's going to be great!”

Well, okay, whatever. The dog thought it was strange that, apparently, they all not only expected to be adopted, but that they
wanted
it to happen. He, for one, had no interest in having strangers take him away ever again.

Florence waved one of her palsied little paws at a hulking German Shepherd who was taking up half of a couch. “And that's Duke.”

“I used to be King,” the German Shepherd said. “But, I got downgraded.”

The dog laughed—but then, realized that the shepherd wasn't kidding. “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

Duke shrugged amiably. “You never know. I might work my way back up.”

“And that is Lancelot,” Florence said, indicating a shaggy Afghan Hound mix.

Lancelot gave him a nod. “Dude,” he said, in a surfer's drawl.

“That's Matthew, up on the shelf,” Florence said, pointing at a scruffy old black cat who was perched on a bookcase.

“Don't take it personally, if I bite you,” Matthew said, and showed his teeth. Lots of teeth. “I'm still kind of feral.”

Okay, good to know. The dog nodded—and kept his distance.

From a well-padded easy chair, a sleek Seal Point Siamese cat looked at the dog suspiciously. “I'm Benjamin, and I'm from the city. The
big
city. Do you have a problem with that?”

What? “No,” the dog said. “Should I?”

“You should
not
,” Benjamin said.

Well, all right. The dog shrugged. “Okay. Then, I don't.”

Benjamin narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated. It sounded like you hesitated.” He turned to Florence. “I don't like him. Send him away!”

“You certainly enjoy the sound of your own voice,” Florence said wryly.

Benjamin smiled a wide smile. “Yes, I think it has a
very pleasant timbre. Thank you for noticing.”

The dog was starting to wonder whether these were the animals who had gotten
turned down
by the Island of Misfit Toys.

“Food,” Bert, the black-and-white cat, said, staring miserably down at his empty dish. “I need more food.” He sighed, hauled himself up onto all four paws, and then stuck his head inside a large bag of kibble.

For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was Bert crunching noisily.

“Well, then,” Florence said. “Moving on now.”

He met several other dogs and cats, but it was hard to keep track of everyone's names, especially since he wasn't exactly Mr. Social. So, the dog just nodded and shrugged, and that sort of thing. It wasn't like he was planning to be pals with anyone.

“What's your story, Webster?” Cole, a stolid grey cat, asked.

What, was he supposed to tell his sad tale, and
emote
, and all? Not likely. The dog shrugged. “This is my fourth shelter.” Or fifth? It was hard to keep track. “I've pretty much had it. And I don't like the name Webster, either. I'm going to need something a whole lot cooler than that.”

“Well, maybe the people who adopt you next will think of a name you like better,” MacNulty said.

Oh, yeah, right. “No one's going to want me,” the dog said. Not that he wanted
them
, either. “I do terrible things.”

Jack sat up, looking intrigued. “Like what?”

The dog had never quite figured that out, so he shrugged.

“I think that the people were probably not nice, and that it has nothing to do with you,” Kerry said.

Maybe. “The first time I had a home, I ate cardboard one day,” the dog said. “The part from inside a roll of paper towels. That really bothered them.”

Duke's eyes brightened. “Cardboard is
good
. Cardboard is
really
good. I love cardboard!”

The other dogs nodded happily, while the cats all exchanged glances.

“If you're not careful, Duke,” Florence said, “you're going to be bumped down to Earl.”

Duke looked horrified. “I don't want that to happen. How low could I go?”

“No name at all,” Benjamin said, without hesitating. “We would just call you Dog or It.”

Duke shuddered. “I better be careful, then. Try not to screw up anymore.”

Did he really not know that cats made dire threats, purely for their own amusement, not because they had actual
power
? “They're cats, man,” the dog said. “If they call you a name you don't like, just don't answer to it.”

Duke's eyes widened even more. “I couldn't do that. I'm a dog. We answer to our names.
Always.
”

Well, on Duke's planet, maybe.

“He's right, Webster,” Florence said.

The dog automatically looked over at her.

Florence laughed. “See? You did it yourself.”

He hadn't answered to it. He had just been—polite. “Well, all I know for sure is that I don't want to be adopted again,” the dog said. “Ever.”

Every single other animal in the room gasped.

“
Everyone
wants to be adopted,” Matthew, the scruffy black cat, said. “I'm not even friendly—and I still want my own special family.”

Okay, so then he would be the exception who proved the rule. “Nope. Not me. Been there, done that, tired of getting kicked around,” the dog said.

Literally and figuratively.

“But, the next people might be nice,” Cole said.

Yeah. Sure. The dog wasn't going to hold his breath about that. “Nope, I'm done,” he said. “Been adopted.
Three times.
Didn't like it. First chance I get, I'm going to escape from here, and make my own way in the world.”

“You can't do that,” Florence said. “Joan and Thomas would be very upset.”

That was too bad and all, but not really his problem.

“What I want, more than anything, is for all of you to find happy homes,” Florence said. “Of course, I'm unadoptable, because of my medical issues, but that isn't true for the rest of you. So, Webster, if you can, you really need to try and find a more positive attitude.”

“Florence, I thought the reason you were unadoptable is because you're such an unbelievable cranky-pants,” Benjamin said.

Florence nodded regally. “Yes, that, too.”

The dog might have been in a bad mood, but he still almost laughed at that particular exchange.

“Lots of us have sad stories,” Lancelot said. “That's just the way it rolls. But now that we're here, at the rescue group, we're all going to have happy endings. So, get with the program, dude.”

How could a bunch of stray animals be so innocent and naive? The dog wasn't going to rain on their parades or anything, but they really didn't have a clue about the
way things worked. “It's not
my
program,” the dog said. “I want to go out there, and make a name for myself. And be really famous, because I'll be, you know, so totally dangerous and diabolical.” Or—something like that. Really, his main motivation was to have adventures, and to have
fun
—and not to have any human beings ever tell him what to do.

The other animals mostly looked puzzled by this.

Pico, the elderly Bernese Mountain Dog mix, gave him a disapproving frown. “You, young retriever, are what my grandmother would have called a bad hat.”

The dog had never heard that phrase before, but he was definitely intrigued. “What's a bad hat?”

“Everything a respectable animal does
not
want to be,” Pico said.

Okay, that was pretty vague. “What do you mean? You have to be a little more clear,” the dog said.

Pico frowned. “It doesn't really have a specific definition, Webster. It's a
concept
.”

There was nothing at all clear about that. Did he look well-educated, or something? The dog tilted his head in confusion.

“Goodness, what a bother,” Pico said impatiently. “A
bad hat is someone who is a troublemaker. A ne'er-do-well. Unruly. Obnoxious.”

Well, those were all words the dog liked very much. “So far, so good,” he said. “What else?”